


The Case of the Double Bluff

by SpaceTimeConundrum



Category: Albert Campion - Margery Allingham, Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: 1930s, Action/Adventure, Crack Crossover, Gen, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceTimeConundrum/pseuds/SpaceTimeConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master has been lying in wait to trap the Doctor yet again, infiltrating London's criminal underworld for his own evil purposes, but has he captured the right man? | Confidential investigator Albert Campion and his worthy ex-burglar manservant Lugg are well versed in the art of grappling with danger, but their enemies are usually of the terrestrial sort. | Turlough would just like to find the Doctor and go somewhere that isn't Earth for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Double Bluff

**Author's Note:**

> Familiarity with the Albert Campion mysteries by Margery Allingham, or more specifically the BBC television series adaptations thereof, is somewhat necessary to fully appreciate this tale. For those unfamiliar souls who wish to proceed anyway, it will benefit you to know that Peter Davison played both the Fifth Doctor and the delightful Albert Campion on television. Any resemblance between these two gentlemen is therefore purely coincidental.

“Blimey, 'oo 'it me? I ain't had a cosh like that in donkey's years! I feel perishin' awful,” Magersfontein Lugg moaned and moved to put a hand to his aching head. 

“Easy now, I'm just having a look,” came a rather familiar male voice next to his ear. There was something not quite right with the way the words were spoken, though in his current state, Lugg would be hard pressed to name it. Cool fingers prodded a tender area at the back of his skull and he flinched.

“Ow! Watch where yer poking at!” he complained and opened his eyes to squint at his well-intentioned assailant. His vision swam, offering him a blurry view of a fair haired man in a cream coloured jumper before he shut them again against the bright light of the room.

“Sorry. Try to hold still if you can. Won't be a moment and I'll have you feeling better,” the man's voice assured him. A sharp jab at his neck brought forth another grunt of protest, but the momentary pain was followed by an icy numbing sensation that spread out from that point. The man must've injected him with something. There was a strange buzzing sound and Lugg suddenly found that he did feel much improved.

Blinking, the white room came reassuringly into focus this time, but his pleasure at having been mysteriously restored soon gave way to confusion when his gaze came to rest on the face of his benefactor. 

“Oi, cock, what's become of yer spectacles?” The words left his mouth before his brain had time to process the obvious: that though he bore a positively uncanny resemblance to his employer, this man was not Albert Campion. His hair was longer than it ought to be for one, blond fringe hanging untidily down over one eye, and he looked to be a few years younger for another. Lugg wouldn't put him much past thirty, if that. But most damning of all was the fact that his expression betrayed a keen intelligence seldom actually displayed by the real Mr. Campion if he could help it. 

“I'm sorry, what?” the man asked in confusion. He was, in point of fact, wearing spectacles, of the small, half-moon, reading variety, which he removed to examine suspiciously for faults. Finding none, he replaced them on the bridge of his nose and leaned forward to peer at his patient instead. 

Lugg stared back at him stupidly for a few seconds before answering. “Beggin' yer pardon, mistook you fer someone else. 'Oer you then? An' where am I? In 'orspital?” 

The man seemed relieved by this response. “Of a sort. You're in my ship's infirmary. I'm the Doctor.” He smiled pleasantly. 

“Magersfontein Lugg,” he introduced himself in return, wondering what sort of ship berthed itself in central London. 

“Do you recall what you were doing before you were injured?” the Doctor asked. “I'm afraid I came upon the scene after the fact, as it were.”

Lugg eyed the Doctor carefully, trying to decide how much he could safely divulge. On this occasion, he hadn't been up to anything particularly incriminating and so settled on a more or less accurate account. 

“Was out fer an evenin' constitutional wif me employer; 'e 'ad it in 'is 'ead that summat intr'sting was 'appenin' involvin' one a 'is cases. Brought me along fer a secon' opinion, I expect, 'e does that.” Lugg sniffed and looked about him. “Speakin' of 'is nibs, where's 'e at? Tall chappie, bit pale, wears great round specs.” He mimed these for effect. “Calls 'imself Albert Campion. Thought you was 'im when I come to; you don't look 'alf like 'im, if you don' mind me sayin' so. If I didn't know better I'd say you was 'is brother or somethin'.”

Having deciphered the gist of this explanation despite Lugg's neigh-impenetrable accent, the Doctor shook his head. “No, I haven't seen him. I found you whilst looking for my own companion, a young man with rather striking red hair. I don't suppose you recall encountering him?” He didn't seem to think it very likely, but Lugg nodded in recognition at the description.

“Was 'e wearin' a suit two sizes too small fer 'imself per'aps?” The memory came back to him like a flash and he continued when the Doctor's interest was clearly piqued. “We 'eard 'im shout. That's 'ow I got this 'ere injury. 'eard this caterwaulin' o'er yonder and 'fore I know it, 'e's off ta play 'ero. Figured I'd better catch 'im up 'fore 'e did summat foolish. Found the lad in th' midst of some proper funny business, an' I got a bang on the 'ead fer my trouble.”

The Doctor looked rather concerned now. “Oh dear.”

–

_Elsewhere in London._

Mr. Lugg's missing employer woke to find himself tied to a chair. He felt groggy and ill. A trace of chloroform odour about his clothes supplied the probable reason for his incapacitation, but that information was hardly reassuring. Somewhat surprisingly, he discovered was sitting in a richly appointed office. Heavy curtains over the windows made discerning the details difficult, but from what he could see, it was tastefully furnished and his feet rested on a plush carpet. Before him sat a great oak writing desk and an enormous leather chair, ensconced in which he found his host. 

The man wore a sombre black suit and an unnerving smile. Campion estimated him to be in his middle forties perhaps and he had one of the least convincing beards the sleuth had ever encountered outside of the theatre. His elbows were resting upon the desk, gloved fingers steepled together as he regarded his captive.

“Hullo,” Mr. Campion began amiably in spite of his circumstances. “I do believe you have me at a disadvantage, sir. Albert Campion, at your service. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

The man laughed and dropped his hands. Campion felt the icy fingers of apprehension creeping up his spine. There was a glint of madness in the man's pale eyes that he did not like one bit. 

“Come off it, Doctor. Drop this silly pretence. I know it's you. I've captured your young companion as well.”

Campion was perplexed. Clearly this man had mistaken him for someone else. He said so.

The man arched an eyebrow at him. “My dear Doctor, surely you don't think me that stupid. _I_ am the Master of disguise after all, you can't possibly expect me to believe this pitiful attempt at subterfuge.” He rose from his throne-like chair and circled the desk to loom over Campion menacingly. “As if a suit and those ridiculous spectacles could ever hide your true self from me!” he pronounced and plucked the offending frames from Campion's face.

Unaccustomed to such brazen violations of his personal space without warning, Campion recoiled, face becoming dangerously blank. “I say, I need those to see, old chap. I'm really not this 'Doctor' fellow you keep going on about, I can assure you.”

If anything, this denial made the madman's grin grow wider and he bent to whisper in Campion's ear. “If you insist on playing this little game Doctor, I shall have to begin introducing my own elements,” he purred, a gloved hand resting disconcertingly on Campion's left thigh. If he had been worried before, he was thoroughly alarmed now. 

“Supposing I am this Doctor,” he asked him carefully, a faint waiver in his voice the only sign that the other man was having an effect on him, “what do you want with me?”

“What do I ever want from you, Doctor?” he answered, mercifully stepping away from his prisoner to gesture expansively. “Your complete and utter subjugation to my will! Or barring that, your humiliation and ultimate destruction at my hands. I haven't decided which it is I'd most prefer this time, perhaps I'll leave that question up to you.” 

Mr. Campion revised his estimations of the man's sanity from 'dangerously unstable' to 'raving lunatic' and swallowed heavily.

–

Turlough was not enjoying his visit to 1937. For starters, they were on Earth yet again. And, as per usual whenever the Doctor assured him that they'd be “perfectly safe” and that he was just “going to have a look around” for the source of some interesting readings, disaster had followed nearly instantaneously. 

Pre-war London was even more of a twisted maze to navigate than the version he'd spent time in on his rare free-days away from Brendon's. He'd managed to lose sight of the Doctor somewhere in that mess of turnings and alleyways and had wandered aimlessly for nearly two hours, until he found himself wishing darkly for a nice blitzkrieg to clear out all the cobble. Turlough considered asking someone for directions, but the weather was bitingly cold and there weren't that many people walking about. Not to mention that in order for that plan to work, he would have to know where he was going, which he didn't. He'd neglected to pay any mind to the street signs until they'd traveled some distance from the TARDIS.

Just as he was beginning to get desperate, that was when they'd found him. At first he thought they intended to rob him and made to toss his wallet at them and run. They were welcome to the five pound twenty he had on him, as much good as it would do them, being more than forty years out of date in the wrong direction. But then one of them remarked to his confederates, “that's 'im, with the orange hair, jus' like 'e said!” and Turlough knew he was in serious trouble.

Basic training from his ill-starred turn in the military had taught him the rudiments of unarmed combat, skills which had saved his hide more than once in his exile, but even that was a poor match for six large thugs. He resorted to kicking and making as much noise as possible, in the hope that it might scare them off or attract the attention of the local police or even better, the Doctor. By some miracle, his efforts did summon a lanky gentleman who rounded the corner upon them and was drawn into the fray in an attempt to come to his aid, but it was not enough.

Turlough had just enough time to notice that the tall man wore a long grey overcoat and round, owlish glasses that caught the light before the rag was shoved in his face and he lost consciousness. 

He came to alone, bound and gagged in what appeared to be an abandoned, or at least ill-kept, brewery. Heavy shadows made the space feel enclosed, though Turlough could make out the looming shapes of large steel holding tanks and a tangle of pipes weaving through the darkness. Across from where he'd been left to sleep off whatever it was they'd drugged him with, an empty wooden chair sat next to a small improvised table that held a lantern and what looked like a single-person card game in progress. A dirty green ashtray beside it contained the still faintly glowing stub of a cigarette. His guard must have stepped out for a moment.

If he listened carefully, he could just make out the low rumble of a human voice in the distance; it sounded like the man might be on the telephone, if those existed in this era. Whatever he was doing, Turlough had until he came back to come up with a plan to escape. He started working on the knots at his wrists with great haste.

–

“Lumme!”

Lugg's broad face was white as he stood gaping just outside the TARDIS's doors. He'd insisted on going out to search for his employer, ignoring the Doctor's attempts to forestall him until it was too late. He leaned from side to side, attention utterly transfixed by the apparent optical illusion before him. With the door open, he could clearly see the size of the strange room within, yet the exterior dimensions of the blue box made it an impossibility. 

“It's bigger on th' inside,” he muttered in astonishment.

“So it is,” came the Doctor's nonchalant reply. “Please step back inside, Mr. Lugg. I believe I've discovered something that may help us locate my friend and your Mr. Campion as well.”

Lacking any better ideas in light of this baffling turn of events, Lugg obeyed him, returning to the console room where the Doctor was busy pottering about with some wires and unidentifiable gadgetry. “'Ow's it do that?” he asked, still focused on the mystery.

“It's dimensionally transcendental,” the Doctor answered without looking up from his work. “I'll explain later.” He connected something up and tapped at the keys in front of him for a second before lifting his chin to catch Lugg's gaze. “You said the men seemed to be trying to abduct my friend, correct?” Lugg nodded. “Did they say anything about taking your employer when they saw him?”

Lugg frowned. “Can't say as I recall. But now that you mention it, they did seem to know 'im.” The Doctor nodded as if he'd expected this answer. “That's not unusual though, 'e's got a reputation nowadays, 'e does. Bit of a nose fer trouble.”

“That may very well be, but you also said that he and I bear a close resemblance to one another earlier. Is it just possible these men may have mistook him for me?” the Doctor inquired. 

Lugg's eyes lit up at this thought. “Could be, Doc!”

The Doctor's expression was solemn. “Then I'm afraid he may have fallen into the clutches of a very old enemy of mine.” He directed Lugg's attention to a section of glass on the panel before him on which scrolled the illuminated words “HELLO, MY DEAR DOCTOR” in repeating type. 

“Wot's that then?” Lugg squinted at the monitor.

“A message, it seems. My ship had detected a rather unusual electromagnetic signal for this era when we arrived; I was tracing its source when I became separated from my companion this afternoon. I'd just managed to locate this transponder,” he patted the gadget wired up to the console, “when I heard a commotion and came running to find you incapacitated in the street.”

“An' you think the two are connected then, do you?” Lugg surmised.

“It's highly probable. I doubt very much that it is a coincidence that my companion and a man whom you say looks just like me were snatched up no more than two blocks from this device.” He moved about the console, pressing buttons decisively. “I believe they've stumbled into a trap.”

“'Ow's this help us find 'em, then?” Lugg asked the obvious question.

“Fortunately for our sakes, we're dealing with someone who wants to be found. This is hardly the only such transponder in London. I've been using the TARDIS sensors to locate the others now that I've got a lock on the precise signature of the devices and am using that to triangulate in on the source.” He looked expectantly at a rectangular screen on the wall, where a map of the city had appeared with glowing markers designating each transponder blinking into existence as they were found. 

“Ah ha!” he exclaimed finally. “Hang on to something Mr. Lugg, we're going for a little ride!”

–

Meanwhile, the Master, who was not used to his opponent denying all knowledge of his existence, was beginning to suspect something was wrong. The Doctor was simply not reacting as he should. He longed for their customary banter and was grievously disappointed when he didn't get it from the infuriatingly pleasant man before him. At first he'd thought it was simply a new tactic his enemy was employing deliberately to aggravate him, but the vacuous expression that had taken up residence on the man's features was a little too convincing. The Doctor was many things, but in this incarnation at least, he was not that accomplished as a liar.

Feeling a bit like a cat who has pounced upon a mouse only to find nothing beneath his paws, the Master turned his back on the man in the chair to think. Closing his eyes to expand his senses, the Master felt for that tingle of psychic familiarity that indicated another Time Lord was near. Since inhabiting Tremas's body, his connection to his own people had become somewhat attenuated, but he could still detect them with effort. Ah, there it was. He was right, the Doctor was here, but he felt further away than he ought to. Puzzled, the Master spun around to examine his captive.

“What have you done to yourself?” he asked of the man, who regarded him with a blank stare. 

“I don't know what you mean,” he answered slowly. A flippant response seemed unwise at this juncture.

“You truly don't know me?” the Master continued, sounding as though he were actually starting to believe it.

He shook his head warily. “I'm afraid not.”

Acting on a hunch, the Master tugged one black glove off and reached out to touch his temple with his bare hand. The telepathic contact was brief but caused an immediate reaction in both men. The Master withdrew his hand quickly in shock while Campion's normally unflappable demeanour had become one of open horror. 

“You're human!” the Master gasped.

“What on Earth was that?” Campion asked nearly simultaneously. The experience of having his innermost thoughts rifled through as one might search a filing cabinet was wholly new to him and he had not enjoyed it one bit. Albert Campion was not one to believe in fantastical forces of darkness, his self-proclaimed speciality in fairy stories notwithstanding, but he was having difficulty convincing himself that he hadn't just encountered something of that very nature. The man's words, when they filtered through to Campion's brain, made that impression all the stronger.

“Have you got a pocket watch on you?” This next query was presented with baffling intensity.

Campion was so startled by this that he answered without thinking. “Not with me. I only wear it on special occasions.”

The Master huffed and quit the room in a hurry, leaving Campion feeling violated and confused in his wake.

When the door opened again, some minutes later, it was with considerable trepidation that the gentleman detective looked behind him.

–

Unable to free his hands before the guard returned, Turlough had instead laid his head down again and pretended to be asleep, biding his time while he planned. The man resumed his card game, humming quietly to himself and largely ignoring his prisoner. The lighting was dim enough that Turlough risked continuing his furtive attempts to loosen his bindings once the guard seemed sufficiently occupied. Unfortunately, his captors had done a distressingly thorough job; it took him more than an hour to wriggle one battered wrist out of his bindings.

He never got an opportunity to make a move against the man watching him though; just as he was mentally preparing himself to go on the offensive, he heard a door creak open just out of sight and three pairs of feet approach. 

“Get him up,” he heard a familiar voice order and Turlough found himself lifted up to face a man he'd met before, under annoyingly similar circumstances.

“Oh, not you again,” he complained aloud, not bothering to feign unconsciousness any more. 

The Master chuckled.

–

Gaining access to the building without detection had been easier than the Doctor had expected it to be, thanks to Mr. Lugg's surprising talents with a lockpick. 

Once inside, they discovered the place was practically humming with activity. It seemed to be some sort of shipping operation; dozens of workers, none of them particularly dangerous looking in and of themselves, were busy unpacking crates and redistributing the contents to other, smaller packages. There was something clandestine in their actions though that made one suspect this was not exactly a legitimate business. That, and the fact that the Doctor had traced the Master's blatantly obvious 'come and get me' signal to this building. His former school friend rarely associated himself with wholesome activities. 

Retreating to an empty hallway before they were observed, the Doctor provided Lugg with a description of the Master, cautioned him to be careful, and the pair parted ways to search the premises separately for their kidnapped friends.

Knowing the Master's fondness for the trappings of authority, the Doctor headed immediately for the top floor, guessing that would be where he'd most likely find their quarry. It was therefore with no small measure of satisfaction with which he opened a door marked with a gold placard as belonging to “Mr. Reginald Stream, Esq” to find a man matching Lugg's description of Mr. Campion staring back at him.

Campion's day had slid so far into the realm of the surreal that the arrival of a man whose face precisely duplicated his own almost made perfect sense. 

“Well,” he said dryly, “this explains rather a lot. You'll be the Doctor, I suppose?”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows and regarded the man with interest. The likeness was a bit startling; he understood now how Lugg had confused them. “I am. And I'm guessing that makes you Albert Campion,” he answered and set about untying the man.

Freed from his restraints, Campion stood, rubbing at his wrists to restore proper circulation to them, and faced the Doctor. The two men were of identical height and build, furthering the strange impression of looking in a mirror the scene gave them both. 

“My sincere thanks for the rescue,” he said, holding his hand out to the other man. The Doctor shook it politely. “Would it be rude of me to ask after an explanation?” Campion inquired. 

The Doctor provided him with a succinct summary of what he knew which Campion accepted without comment, though certainly his credulity was tested by some of it. “I still need to find Turlough,” he concluded. In turn, the detective shared what he'd learned from his interrogation by the Master, limiting his observations to the pertinent dialogue and omitting the mental intrusion. He did not know where Turlough was, but the Master clearly had some idea, and had seemed terribly interested in locating his pocket watch, for some reason. 

The Doctor looked puzzled for a moment at this and then grinned. “You're a lucky man, Mr. Campion, that you didn't have it on you; that may have just saved your life.”

Campion meant to ask him to explain this strange pronouncement, but further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Lugg, face red with exertion as though he'd been running. “I bin lookin' all o'er fer you!” he exclaimed, puffing, and shut the door behind him. “We need to be getting' out of 'ere. Yer friend ain't in the building, Doctor, but that feller the Master jus' came in, an' 'e's 'eaded this way right quick!” 

“I'll deal with the Master; both of you, get out of here while you can,” the Doctor ordered.

The two men moved to heed his advice, until Campion paused just before the doorway. “Just a moment, I've had an idea...”

–

When the Master returned to his office, he was in a testy mood. The boy had not been particularly helpful. He, like all of the Doctor's insipid followers, had that obnoxious streak of loyalty to the time lord that made speaking with any of them especially tedious. He'd feigned ignorance when questioned and hadn't given the Master the information he required. Even more irritatingly, the young man had clearly had some training in mental defense, so he'd been forced to leave him to the hired help to apply less subtle persuasive techniques while he returned to question the curiously transformed Doctor again.

He found his captive seated just where he'd left him, though the man's hair and clothes seemed even more mussed than they had been. So this human version of the Doctor was at least intelligent enough to attempt an escape; he hadn't made it far though, obviously. The Master smiled and leaned a hip on the desk, folding his arms across his chest casually. Blue eyes watched him silently from behind round lenses. 

“So,” he began, “Mr... _Campion_ , was it? That's new, usually you prefer John Smith. Assume I wish to believe your claim that you are not the Doctor after all, have you any proof of your identity?”

The fair haired man appeared to consider this for a moment. “Inside jacket pocket,” he replied finally. 

The Master leaned forward and slid a worn leather wallet from the indicated pocket and opened it. In it, he found a small quantity of bank notes, a British driving license, a dining club membership card, and a tidy little stack of business cards. He removed one and read it carefully. "Bottle Street?" His captive smiled blandly at him. He flipped the card over and read the reverse; the Master arched an eyebrow artfully. "What exactly does 'police no object' mean?"

The man gave an eloquent shrug and the Master glowered at him. Humans were so indescribably insufferable to be around, the Master had no idea how the Doctor could stand them. He resolved to give the Doctor a lengthy lecture on how pathetically tedious he'd been as a human man once he was returned to his proper faculties. Keeping the card, he returned the wallet to its owner's pocket and made to leave again. The watch would be in Bottle Street, he was sure of it. He'd go and fetch it himself and be rid of this irritating facsimile of the Doctor. Killing the man outright and being done with it once and for all never even entered into his thoughts.

"Might I ask a question now?" his captive inquired.

The Master paused. "What is it?"

"That young man I was with, where is he? I'd like to know that he's all right."

“Why should you care? I thought you said you didn't know him.” The Master's voice was dangerously genteel. 

“I can't be concerned for the fate of my fellow man?” His tone was faintly affronted.

“He's with some of my men not far from here. Alive, for the time being. A fact which you should bear in mind when I return, should you desire his continued survival.” The threat was hardly subtle.

“Since I'm obviously not the man you want, why not just let me go? I can be very discreet, I promise.”

The Master laughed and shook his head. “That remains to be seen my dear young man, that remains to be seen.” And with that darkly cryptic line, he made his exit.

As the heavy door swung shut, the Master's captive sprung into action, rising from his chair in time to catch the door handle before the latch clicked to lock him inside. He waited until a count of thirty before venturing cautiously out into the corridor beyond. Thankfully there was no sign of the Master and he hurried to find a telephone.

–

Lugg stood waiting by the TARDIS in an alley not far from the Master's headquarters. Still a bit unnerved from his earlier experience with the blue police box, he jumped when the telephone bell jangled. He lifted the handset to his ear like a man handling a poisonous creature. 

“'Lo. Lugg 'ere.” He listened closely to the voice on the other end of the line. “I'll let 'im know,” he replied and returned the thing to its cradle and shut the little door.

“Oi!” he called over to his companion, who was watching the street from the mouth of the alleyway, and, remembering that they were supposed to be keeping a low profile, jogged over to him to whisper the rest. “That was 'im. Says the lad's close by but 'e couldn't get an exact fix on 'is location. The Master's gone to Bottle Street on account of 'e thinks 'e'll find an important pocket watch there. We've got a bit of searchin' to do.”

“Then we'd best get a move on then, hadn't we?” He cocked his head to the side and strode purposefully around the corner, leaving Lugg to chase after his beige coattails. 

–

Turlough felt he could safely add “endure a beating delivered by English gangsters” to his list of things he hoped to never, ever repeat in his lifetime. By this point, the list had become rather a lengthy one, yet the universe kept finding new ways to torment him. When he saw the Doctor again, they were going to have words, because it was becoming frankly ridiculous how often this sort of thing happened on their outings together. The Time Lord had seemingly only grown more reckless, not less, since Tegan's departure and his vow to mend his ways. 

Eventually the toughs had tired of abusing a man who cringed and cowered, but didn't make any sounds other than yelps of pain or heavy breathing, and stopped. They had been ordered not to kill him, so instead they stood around and smoked, speculating amongst themselves as to what their boss wanted with the weedy ginger youth anyway.

They all looked up as one when a loud door buzzer sounded. The gangsters held their tongues, hoping to wait out the unexpected visitor, but whoever it was, they were incredibly persistent and kept ringing. Finally, one of the men gave in and went to answer the door, the others trailing behind him menacingly.

“Good evening, gentlemen!” A cheerful male voice made Turlough's ears perk up. “I was wondering if you might be of some assistance. I'm looking for a friend of mine, disappeared around these parts earlier this afternoon. You haven't by any chance happen to have seen him, have you?”

The thug was about to invite him to get lost when the man stepped forward, and the dim light from inside the warehouse shone directly on his face, which had been obscured by the shadow of his hat brim. “Wait just a minute, ain't you the bloke we took to the boss this afternoon?”

“Was I? No, I think I'd remember something like that. Must have one of those faces,” the man grinned. Suddenly there were a lot more faces looking back at him from the doorway. He turned and ran off as swiftly as his long legs would carry him, inspiring three of them to give chase.

–

Whilst this conversation was taking place, Turlough had been distracted by a voice whispering his name from the darkness. He rolled over with considerable effort to look for the source of this sound, but all he could see was the faint glimmer of a reflection off of a pair of glasses.

“Doctor?” he asked hopefully. Turlough was not in any condition remotely suitable for making a run for it, if that's what the Gallifreyan had in mind. He must have realised this, because he came out of his hiding place to check on him. When he did so, Turlough got a better look at what he was wearing. It certainly seemed to be the Doctor, but when did he ever bother to change his clothes? He looked very different in a suit and glasses with his hair combed back. 

“What are you... Hang on, you _are_ the Doctor, aren't you?” he asked, suddenly realising why the voice at the door had seemed familiar. How were there two of them? His head ached far too much for this right now.

“Of course I am,” the Doctor assured him and dropped the ropes that had bound Turlough's legs on the ground. “Come on, quickly now. Are you able to walk, or shall I carry you?”

Stubborn pride got Turlough to his feet with the Doctor's help, and the pair turned to retreat back into the shadows, only to be stopped by the remaining two thugs.

“Where do you think yer goin' then?” the one pointing the revolver at them asked. 

“Ah. Bit chilly for a stroll, is it?” The Doctor smiled innocently at them, looking very much like his detective counterpart as he raised his hands in surrender. 

“Very funny. Hold on, weren't you just at the door?” one of the men asked, sounding rather confused. “What the hell is going on?”

“'E's prob'ly got a brother or summat like that. Jus' tie 'im up, we'll let the boss sort 'em out.” The gunman was not a man prone to wild leaps of imagination and was singularly uninterested in any of this funny business.

The man without the gun obediently stepped forward to take the Doctor's arm and that's when Lugg struck his partner from behind with a tyre iron. The revolver went skittering across the cement floor to disappear beneath a fermentation basin, and the Doctor was able to disable his assailant with a well-timed elbow to the face. Working quickly, the two men had the thugs bound up like presents in short order. Turlough stood watching in dazed amazement at their efficiency.

“Splendid timing, Mr. Lugg, thank you,” the Doctor said as the trio made for the door. The large man grinned.

“Praise from the Lord o' Time 'iself,” he replied and laughed as they stepped out into the cold night air. 

–

They found Mr. Campion, still in the Doctor's clothes, entertaining several of Scotland Yard's finest outside of the Master's headquarters. A raid on the premises was taking place, uniformed police swarming everywhere. 

When the Doctor appeared, the two plainclothes men standing nearest to Campion performed near perfectly matching double takes. Despite having been warned ahead of time, neither had quite believed their friend and associate when he said he'd met his double. Campion introduced the men as Superintendent Stanislaus Oates and Chief Inspector Yeo respectively. The Doctor and Turlough shook their hands respectfully.

Oates took one look at Turlough and immediately asked if he needed to see a medic. Speaking before the Doctor could suggest that he take him back to the TARDIS, Turlough answered the Superintendent, “Why not? Perhaps he'll have something warm to drink,” and allowed himself to be led off by a young constable. 

“What news of the Master?” the Doctor asked, turning back to the small group.

“Mr. Stream? Did a disappearing act I'm afraid. Gave my Sergeant the slip when he interrupted his search of your flat.” Oates redirected this comment to the actual Campion at the last second, as though he'd realised too late which man had asked the question. “We'll catch up with him eventually.”

The Doctor removed the horn-rimmed spectacles he'd borrowed and passed them back to their rightful owner, who put them on gratefully. 

“And you're sure you've no relation?” Yeo asked the pair incredulously. 

“None that I'm aware of,” Campion answered truthfully. The Doctor shook his head. 

“By Jove, that's uncanny,” the policeman remarked. 

“If you'll excuse us for a moment, I think it might be less confusing for everyone if the Doctor and I return to our own clothing,” Campion said, placing a friendly hand on the Doctor's shoulder. 

The detective led the Doctor back to his ship and unlocked it with a key that he produced from a striped pocket. He smiled apologetically and shrugged as he stepped inside. 

“I hope you don't mind,” he confessed. “I took the liberty of peeking inside already. I had to prove to myself that you were on the level. Lugg is normally a credit to his species as a witness, but he can be prone to bouts of excitability on occasion, you see.” He removed the Doctor's hat and coat and deposited them on the hatstand in the corner.

“An understandable precaution,” the Time Lord allowed, shrugging out of the wool overcoat he wore.

“I'll admit that it came as something of a shock to behold. I'm afraid after this, I'll never be permitted to doubt Lugg again,” Campion said with a wry smile.

The Doctor chuckled and regarded Mr. Campion with something like respect. The man had acquitted himself rather resourcefully under pressure and been willing to stay behind to try to trick Turlough's location out of the Master until the Doctor had insisted they swap places. Even Mr. Lugg had been strangely enjoyable company once he'd recovered from his shock. He was almost tempted to offer the pair a trip in the TARDIS, as compensation for the inconvenience of having been mistaken for himself and subjected to the Master's attentions. Only the thought that if he did, there'd be no end to the confusion such as they'd had today stopped him. 

–

Twenty minutes later, the Doctor collected his slightly intoxicated companion from the care of the police surgeon and generous fellow who'd lent the lad his flask and the two men said their goodbyes in a hurry, not wishing to get drawn into giving formal statements. 

The Doctor shook Lugg's hand first, thanking him again for his assistance, and wished him the best in his efforts to look after his adventurous employer. Lugg glowed appreciatively. 

Turning to Campion, the Doctor clasped his hand warmly. “It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Campion, though the circumstances might've been better. You have my number. Should the Master return, or if anyone else gives you trouble while invoking my name, please don't hesitate to use it.”

“And you, Doctor, if ever you're in London again, do look me up. This has been a most enlightening experience for me.” Campion's normally affable expression betrayed genuine sparks of humility with his parting words. 

The Doctor retreated into his ship, preceded by Turlough, who'd been much briefer with his farewells, owing to his understandably foul mood, and the door shut quietly. Campion and Lugg stood watching as the the blue box flickered and faded away before their very eyes with a great grinding and scraping sound that echoed off the buildings around them. 

“Reckon that's a story fer the grandchildren, eh?” Lugg broke the silence first.

“Undoubtedly,” was Mr. Campion's understated reply.


End file.
